One of the few times.

 One of the few times

when I don't want to write poetry. 

But I NEED poetry to write me. 

To rescue me, 

from the shackles of my

indifferences with myself.

To cure me

with its viscous magic. 

To listen to 

this cosmic glitch. 

To give words 

to the nib of my pencil.

To protect me 

from the waves of nostalgia.

That seem to resurface 

the repeat. 

One of the few times, 

when I NEED poetry, 

to put me to sleep.

To rid my feet of stones.

For, they're making me drown.

To rid me of this slavery

of my brain. 

One of the few times, 

when I NEED poetry 

to help me swim out of

chaos and conflict 

Hell, why isn't it ordinary, 

the feeling of February? 

With hot-cold affogato 

on my Spanish pink lips. 

One of the times,

when I NEED poetry, 

to stop this frivolous 

mind from sleeping.

To show direction, 

to this insubstantial wanderer. 

Oh  boy, 

One of the few times, 

when I NEED poetry 

to stop me ,

from contorting into

humorous surfaces. 

Was Shakespeare gay?

Did Kafka never really finish a novel? 

The meaning of life is that it stops? 

To give music 

to my lyrics. 

Oh poetry, 

am I incapable of love?

Or is it incapable of me? 

Why is it so, 

that I'm my own enemy?   

a.s